


Revolver

by lalalive



Category: Muse
Genre: Demonic Possession, Explicit Language, Gen, Horror, Nudity, Religious Content, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:12:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalalive/pseuds/lalalive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt is an exorcist in upstate New York. When he gets called in for a job that sounds run of the mill, he encounters far more than he ever expected. Lost and feeling guilty, he writes what he remembers in his journal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revolver

**March 4, 2009 2:24AM**

It's been 22 days since my last entry, 4 days since my last confession. And I've been….sick…with the memories of last friday. I don't want to write this down, I don't want to commit this to paper - that would mean it wasn't a dream. It was real. 

I wish it wasn't real. 

I thought I'd seen it all, thought there was nothing left that held the element of surprise. Arrogance made me delusional and reckless. I blame myself for everything that happened. I shouldn't, but I do. Because I could have saved him. I tried. I failed. 

By all accounts he should still be alive. There was nothing unusual about his case. It seemed trivial and routine, and I was so unprepared for the sheer power contained in such a small body. Unprepared for the act of heroism that marked me a killer. 

When I saw Father Richard's name on the caller ID of my mobile, I had to stop myself from frowning outright. I considered him a friend, but he only called for a singular purpose. It was never good.

"Father," I answered. After twelve years, we were past the point of pleasantries.

"Bellamy, I…" he trailed off. 

There was a brief pause before he spoke again, and I wanted to say I knew what he was asking. I could pre-empt everything he wanted to say, but the truth is that you never really do. Every case is different and….you never really know.

"I need you to work a case for me. He's a member of my congregation…a young one."

"How young?" I took a drag on my cigarette and cringed. I didn't want it to be a child.

'Eighteen."

"Right." I nodded. I was alone in my house. The action was pointless. "Name?"

"Dominic Howard. Come to the church this afternoon, I can give you more information then. It's….advanced very quickly."

"How long's it been?" I tapped the ashes of my cigarette onto my desk, opening my mouth in a silent scream when a stray tumbled onto my bare thigh.

"Two weeks."

"Has the family sought medical examination?"

"We can talk more this afternoon. I think you need to see the images of the case before you jump to conclusions."

I didn't like the idea of working on a teenager before they had been offered medical attention. The legal implications of being held responsible for anything that went wrong made me uneasy. 

"Shall I come round about 1?" 

"Fine. And Bellamy?"

"What?" I knew what was coming.

"When am I going to see you in the house?"

The corner of my mouth pulled into a grin. "You mean at mass?"

"You know."

"I'm more of a….freelance, kind of guy."

"Proof of the devil means proof of the lord."

I sighed. "Well, then the lord needs to try a little harder."

"I'll see you at one."

He hung up on me and I took my time gathering my things. I packed an overnight bag, hoping I wouldn't have to use it but knowing well a situation like this could take days to resolve. Dominic's body was strong and youthful, however, so there was a good chance he would come out of this with minimal damage beyond the psychological scars. It was always worse working on a child, who possessed little understanding of what was happening to them, and the elderly, who were too weak to survive.

When I got to St. John the Baptist Church, Father Richard already had folders of information and a tape recorder waiting for me atop his desk. A five o'clock shadow sat awkwardly on his features, making him appear aged with stress. I sat across from him, taking a folder of photos as I relaxed into the chair. He pushed a drink towards me. It was water. I was aching for bourbon. 

"Dominic's been coming to church with his family since he was about eight years old. He finished communion here, though had started in his home town." He leaned back in his chair and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Which was where?" I asked, not looking up from the photos. Several were of Dominic in a school uniform from St. John's Academy, smiling and healthy. I studied them carefully, committing each detail to memory. The point of reference was essential for comparison during my sessions. 

"Elmore County, Idaho." He took a sip from the glass he offered me, revoking it to his possession as it had gone ignored.

"The military base?" I stopped on a photo of Dominic in street clothes, squinting in bright sunlight. I recognized the location as Florence, Italy.

"Yeah, his father is in the air force. Moved to Plattsburgh to make roots."

"When was this photo taken?" I flipped it in my fingers, showing the priest.

"About a month ago. His parents took it from his Facebook page."

I turned the photo back around. A trip to the epicenter of Catholicism was a large red herring. "Is he very devout?" 

"More than most teenage boys I see. He's sensible. He follows faithfully where it counts, but doesn't pass judgment on others. From what I hear, he's very well liked amongst his peers."

"A good kid," I muttered. It always happens to the best of them. 

I moved the photo from Italy to the back of the pile and grimaced. The following image was less than appealing. A frail Dominic was in bed, his back arched, mouth open wide. His jaw looked close to dislocation. 

"Who took these pictures? The recent ones."

"They're from his sister Abigail's iPhone."

I switched to another photo. A middle-aged woman, I presumed was his mother, stared blankly at a camera. There was a long, deep gash along her cheek.

"A week after they returned from Italy, Dominic attacked his mother with a pair of scissors. Photo was taken just after the incident." 

"How can you be sure this is -"

"Listen." He leaned forward and pressed play on the tape recorder. 

It was a recording of a different priest, a man called Father Ethan, during his own private session with Dominic. The boy sounded terrified and spoke with hitched breaths as though he had been crying. Father Ethan asked Dominic if he would join him in prayer and, though he had agreed, it seemed that once the prayer began Dominic was unable to speak or form words. When Father Ethan insisted that Dominic speak with him, an entirely different voice consumed the recording. From whisper silent to piercing yell, a rasping voice spewed vile expletives and laughed with what I could only describe as a metallic click. There were sounds of a struggle, yelling and rumbling growl. Father Ethan kept a rhythm of a traditional Latin incantation flowing in the background, as though it were soothing music of a tense film. What began as spitting evolved into sharp and wet coughs that punctuated holy nouns like "Dei Patris," "Spiritus Sanctus," and "Christum Dominum." 

Father Richard stopped the recording.

"This was captured three days ago. The boy was consumed and become violent. We restrained him, though he began coughing up bodily fluids."He drank from the glass once more, clutching it in his hand like a relic. He swallowed hard, and I wondered if he, too, wished for the burn of alcohol to dull the senses.

"How many priests have consulted him?" I dropped the photos back onto the desk. I'd seen enough.

"Only 2, excluding me." 

I stared at the tape recorder, wallowing in the uncomfortable sensation that I desired to hear more. The clip ended abruptly and I wanted more details, more sounds. But at the same time, I wanted nothing at all. 

Father Richard assumed my silence was skepticism. 

"The boy has no history of medical complications, no psychological -"

I cut him off. "Where does he live?"

We arrived at Dominic's house around four in the afternoon. The Howard family lived in a quiet neighborhood off Peru Street, near the docks of Cumberland Bay. It was an unassuming home, and appeared so pleasant from the outside I hated to shatter the illusion upon entry. Father Richard pulled a key from his coat pocket and opened the door wide, motioning for me to enter first. 

The house was deadly silent; my own breathing seemed to disturb its molecular structure.

Father Richard nudged me towards the staircase in front of us. After I removed my shoes, I felt myself sink into the carpet and I tried not to make a sound as I ascended. When I came to the landing, a group of people who had been sitting in chairs gathered around a bedroom door rose and eyed me conspicuously. I made to introduce myself, but when they caught sight of Father Richard their focus was no longer on me, the stranger, in favor of the familiar.

A woman with an angry scab on her cheek stepped forward. It was clear she had styled her dark hair in efforts to shield the cut, but her sudden movements betrayed her efforts. She gazed from me to Father Richard as she spoke. Her hands tugged the hem of her sweater repeatedly for lack of anything better to do with them.

"Father, it's worse…"

A silent exchange passed between them and I coughed, hoping to get down to business. 

"Right, yes. This is Matthew Bellamy, the exorcist I told you all about." Father Richard held his arm in my direction and I approached the family to shake their hands. As soon as it was clear that I was there to help, the tension directed at me broke. Mrs. Howard introduced herself to me as Emily and her husband shook my hand, albeit weakly, informing me his name was Jacob. Their daughter refused my hand and stared coldly at me, standing in front of her brother's door as though his guardian. I faltered, but remained polite.

"Uhm, hello. I guess you're Abigail?"

"Father Richard says you aren't Catholic…or Christian." Her eyes were a dark gray, as though storming.

"I'm not," I said flatly.

"What makes you think you can help if you don't have faith?" 

"Faith can exist without being placed solely on the reliance of a specific omniscient being. Faith in all things is what makes a healer versatile."

"Is that what you consider yourself? A 'healer?'" she countered.

"In the most technical sense, sure."

Her eyes narrowed briefly before she moved a few steps forward and took my hand, appraising me still though I had apparently passed some sort of test. I wondered if she had done this with the other priests to enter their home. When I released her hand, she immediately brushed a dark strand of hair off her forehead, turning back to her brother's room.

"Abigail," Emily said. "Go wait in your room. If anything happens, I don't want you to see it." 

"But mom -" she began to argue, turning to her mother.

"I mean it." Emily's voice was stern. 

Abigail slowly turned and walked down the hall to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

"Please," Emily said, extending her arm to Dominic's bedroom door. 

I nodded and entered with a cringe.

The bedroom smelled of piss and decay, the burning lemon of house cleaner and dirty bedsheets. I immediately felt a sense of dread settle in my stomach. Dominic was in his bed with the covers up to his waist, though he was shirtless and sweating. The ribbing of his chest plate was too distinct; it appeared as though he had been malnourished for upwards of 3 months rather than two weeks. He was asleep, breath rattling in an inhuman wheeze. Dried blood caked his lips, the color enhanced by the slight yellowing of his skin. 

His body flinched when the floorboards under our feet creaked, his pull from sleep almost painful and uncomfortable. In a violent and sharp manner his back arched off the bed, fingers of his right hand curling as though flexing talons while his left gripped the sheets and tore the cloth. With a thud he collapsed back on the bed, laughing in a metallic creak.

"Solum volo ludere, viventes in cibum." 

The rasping voice spewed latin from Dominic's mouth fast enough to give me verbal whiplash. He shot upright, eyes fixed upon me. I recalled he had gray, almost pale blue, irises and so I frowned at the sight of too wide black. Undeterred, I approached the foot of the bed noting with interest the tremors that rippled down his arms. 

"Hello, Dominic." I said, calmly.

A snarl ripped from the back of his throat and out of his nostrils, though the rest of his features gave nothing away. Behind me, I heard his mother gasp. Her nerves shattered, she excused herself from the room and shut the door.

The recording Father Richard had played informed me this demon was of Judeo-Christian folklore, and I was grateful I wouldn't have to struggle my way through Arabic, Chinese or Greek to begin communication. It wouldn't let Dominic speak for himself, so I would force it to give me an identity.

"In the name of our lord, Jesus Christ, name thyself," I said, forcefully.

It said nothing, instead brought Dominic to a stand on his knees. He cocked his head to the left, inspecting me with a small smile as the sheets around his waist fell onto the headboard. He was naked. 

"I command you, give me your name!" I brought my voice near to a yell, brow furrowed in concentration.

He cackled gleefully, the sound resonating off the walls leaving a slight ring in the silence. In slow, calculated movements, he inched closer to me without breaking eye contact and brought his hand to his cock. Languidly, he brought himself to a half-hard state, mouth twitching with each stroke desperate for my eyes to flick downward.

I began saying a common prayer in Latin, not giving in to his game. One of us was going to crack and it would not be me.

"Ambulavero in valle umbrae mortis non timebo malum quoniam tu mecum pars -"

He cut me off with a piercing, guttural scream, shaking the walls from the force. The sheer power held within such a frail body was at once captivating and terrifying. 

"Dic mihi quomodo illa sententia desnit." Patches of varying shades of red and purple started to form under Dominic's eyes as he spoke, body swaying in a serpentine fashion. His tongue coaxed the words out of his mouth with disturbing sensuality, trying to seduce me into conversation. 

I continued to pray.

" - tu semper mecum es, Domine - "

"Suck me." In English, he presented me with his half-hard penis, coquettishly staring me down. "Don't you want to suck the hot meat of this flesh?" 

It was my turn to smile, the warm sensation of knowledge and familiarity flooding my synapses. How easily he had betrayed himself. 

"Asmodeus," I said, calmly. Now the he had been named it was a matter of time before he was banished.

"Tell me how that sentence was meant to end," he spat, breath smelling of sulfur. "Your _rod_ and your _staff_ , they _comfort me_."

Holy words shot from his mouth, dripping and defiled with sinful innuendoes. I scowled at him and beckoned Father Richard to my side. He approached with a cross presented in front of him, which sent the demon crawling back towards the headboard with a hiss. From my pocket, I pulled a flask of holy water. Flipping open the top, I threatened to haphazardly throw its contents onto his skin by tipping the silver to a dangerously low angle.

"Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris," Father Richard and I chanted together. 

Dominic's writhing worsened before an agonized howl filled the room, the force of which pushed Father Richard and myself back several feet. As we gained our balance in the quiet that followed, choked whimpers emerged from the boy as he struggled to catch his breath. 

He sounded completely human.

"Please," he whispered. Face pressed into his pillow and flipped at an awkward angle, I strained to hear his muffled pleas. "Help me."

"Dom!" Jacob rushed to the side of the bed, kneeling before his son with outstretched hands.

"Stop!" I exclaimed. "Look at his skin. The demon is still in him, he might strike you."

"All do respect, sir, this is my son and I will approach him as I wish." He shot me a stern look that silenced me, if only because I knew never to argue with a parent, before turning back to Dominic. "I can tell the difference between the voice of my child and the voice of the beast."

"Dad," Dominic choked. Jacob reached for his hand, but the boy recoiled in pain. "Don't! It hurts." 

He pushed himself, weakly, to rest on his elbows. Tears marred his cheeks and I noticed the way the smears made the red veins of his face gleam ominously. When he met my gaze, I could see his life slowly being drawn from him; irises a tepid gray as his soul became hollowed from within. 

"You're the one who can help me, right?" he asked me. 

"I can try." I wished I could have said yes. I didn't want to fail and then be deemed a liar.

"Get him out of my head. I hear every single thing he makes me say, I see everything he makes me do. I'm in his head as much as he's in mine, please!" He sucked on the cracks of his bottom lip and all I could do was nod in response.

"Dom," his father said, reaching for him again.

As quickly as Dominic had forced his presence out, Asmodeus returned, whipping around to Jacob with a grin.

"Don't be so rude, you know how I am! Why can't you call me by name, MOTHERFUCKER?" Jacob fell back, pushing himself to the wall in horror. "So," he continued turning back to me, "the little bastard thinks he's in my head? Bet you don't know what I can do that he can't."

His smile faded in concentration and I suddenly found myself unable to breathe. Next to me, Father Richard began to pray. I wanted to join him but all the words had vanished from my brain. Gurgling sounds rumbled in Dominic's chest and bruises began to appear along his ribcage. I felt myself pale as I realized what he was doing. 

Blood seeped from his mouth, over his lips, and down his chin in thick streaks. Opening his mouth with a cough, he released a veritable flood down the front of his chest. Once again, he smiled, white teeth stained scarlet. 

"Hope he enjoys his new internal bleeding," he said, wind from his mouth spraying blood onto the sheets in splatters. 

"NO!" Jacob shouted, hoisting himself off the ground. He launched himself towards the bed, and I screamed for him to stop but Asmodeus beat me to the punch. 

"Mos non mihi prohibere!" he screamed, voice low and deep. Jacob was thrown against the wall and knocked unconscious. 

From there, things happened so fast the entire ordeal still remains a blur to me. I remember the way Jacob fell limp onto the floor and the cackle of the demon as he perched atop the bed. Father Richard was chanting loudly and his words were ringing in my ear. Instead of joining him, I was transfixed by the stare of an angry demon. 

"Dear Dominic has been a bad boy," he growled. "Want to see what mommy's little boy has done?"

I remembered the flask in my hand reared back to throw, but he lurched forward with a snarl and drew it out of my hand across the room. I watched in despair as the water spilled across the floor boards. 

"Dommy has a present 4 you, Father!" 

Father Richard was suddenly silenced and began struggling to breathe. It was this that snapped my memory back into action.

"Praecipio tibi in nomine Jesu Christi exire istum sanctum fratem!" I shouted.

Father Richard fell to his knees gasping, and I continued to mutter every powerful incantation I could remember.

The demon reached under the bed with a roar and turned his head to wink at me, smiling wickedly. "Tricks and treats, treats and tricks. Which one have I brought for you today?"

In a flash he was sat back on the bed, a black revolver in his hand aimed at his head. 

The silence that followed made my ears ring as Father Richard and I looked on, stunned. 

"Dommy loves daddy's gun. I had him take it from the safe because I always love to please my host. Shall….we….play?" He cocked the gun and pointed it towards his own mouth. 

Father Richard and I continued chanting vigorously, screaming Latin and Hebrew at him until it would become painful for him to stay in our realm.

"SHALL I? ONLY ONE BULLET AND 5 EMPTY SPACES DEAR MATTHEW, HOW ABOUT A GAME OF RUSSIAN ROULETTE?" 

His flesh became gangrenous and repulsive, pus seeping from open wounds that had started to form along his arms. And then, he changed. Dominic was back. Eyes no longer mischievous, merely sad, wicked grin replaced with a grimace. He starred at the barrel of the gun. I stopped chanting as Father Richard continued in a low hum next to me. 

"If I do this….will it be over?" was all he asked.

"No, Dominic, we can help you," I said. I remember becoming frantic, desperate for a different way out. 

"But you can't, ok? You're trying and nothing is working. If I do this, he has to leave." He bit back a sob.

"Dominic, if you do this he will still exist. He will consume someone else." I tried reasoning with him, but I could see his mind had already been made up.

"I'm not going to last. He's too strong for me. Maybe you can try again -" 

And he was gone again, fear replaced with evil intent. 

"Will he…….or WON'T HE?" he teased. "WILL I??" 

He placed his finger on the trigger, beaming at me. Once again the metal click in his throat signaled his joy, and a wave of nausea hit me as his laugh became akin to the beat of a metronome. 

Then, his smile faded, the clicking stopped. Dominic was himself once more. Squeezing his eyes shut, tears fell from between his eyelashes.

He yelled as he pulled the trigger.

His voice cut out as the bang filled the room and the wall behind him was painted red. 

I spent ages in that room looking for any signs of Asmodeus, but there were none to be found. Emily sat at her son's bedside, inconsolable and unable to look me or Father Richard in the eye. When Jacob came to, he remained with his daughter in her bedroom. Grief consumed the house, and I stood in silence wondering where Asmodeus had fled. After a few hours, I took my leave of the family and returned home. 

He was a teenager and he is dead because….why? Because I didn't believe in the right deity? Because I lost my wits in the face of a Prince of Hell? It doesn't matter. My errors killed him. 

I've spent the last few days reading _The Book of Talbot_ searching for answers, hoping for insight on how to defeat him once he makes himself known. Because he will. And when he does, I want to be the one to send him back to hell.

I thought that if I wrote this down, I would feel some relief though I don't deserve it. It's now 3:21 in the morning. I know I won't be able to sleep, no matter how hard I try. For the past few days, I've felt nauseous, uneasy and on edge. The guilt is wearing me thin, making my moods unpredictable. 

I shall sign this out now. I have to leave at 6 inwer.333awefkl….stultusstultividusmorusfatuusleviculusineptusvanusbaburrussssssssilly _silly silly silly all I wanted to do was play._

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Muse or The Book of Talbot. I mean no offense by anything written here. I am not an exorcist, so I have gone on what little folklore there is about demons and Latin incantations. I do, however, own Emily, Jacob, Abigail, Father Richard and Father Ethan. Plattsburgh, New York and Cumberland Bay are 30 minutes out side of my home town, so the locations described here are real.


End file.
